


Rubies

by Westfelled



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Blood, Death, Duelling, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, Injury, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Protective Siblings, Sibling Love, Subjective Jonsa, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westfelled/pseuds/Westfelled
Summary: Surely Sansa has misheard him for mere moments ago he'd openly named Jon the better swordsman of the two, but Ramsay accepts the challenge of a duel with glittering eyes like a small child on his name day.





	

It's as if his eyes are still on her. Crawling, invading, violating, degrading. The fallout of his presence continues to loom over her as if she were to turn and feel his breath on her skin. Their meeting with her husband - _how she shudders at the word_ \- had been brief but even with a calvary at her back, she'd been exposed to him. Pink creases form in her palms as she recalls his lustful gaze as he counted every cut and bruise beneath her dress, for he knows them well. Jon had surely noticed too, for she'd seen how his hands had tightened subtly around the reigns, the leather creaking between his fingers. Nonetheless, she'd held her head high and endured with dignity and cold eyes.

The men had commenced their displays of intimidation as men do and at first, she had wondered if perhaps she'd missed something. Moments ago he'd openly named Jon the better swordsman of the two, and yet Ramsay had needed minimal convincing when the notion of a duel was proposed. Part of her wonders if the others had truly expected such an outcome, for she certainly hadn't. Regardless, they are to cross blades at high noon tomorrow.

The notion terrifies her, for Ramsay agrees to terms only if they are like to result in tragedy for his opposition.

It's late now and her restlessness comes as little surprise. In fact, she'd not bothered to remain in her tent for long and instead seeks solace in the frigid night air. Jon, it seems, has had similar troubles for when she seeks after him in his tent he's nowhere to be found. The eve of battle brings memories of Stannis' burning camp flashing through her mind's eye and she's thankful that Jon has heeded her request of extra guards to patrol the grounds. The night is alive still with laughter and drunken songs as the men make noisy toasts to Jon's strength and good fortune in the fight to come. A meaningless gesture, she muses cynically. These men do not bear the same weight as their commander on this night and she doubts she will find Jon in such a place, for she's never known him as one to mindlessly dull his senses. Not when there is so much at stake.

She fears the worst after she scours nearly every inch of the grounds with still no sign of him but finally, the distant sound of a whetstone singing over a blade draws her to a tiny fireside on the outskirts of camp. It's there that she finds him, the light of the flames casting shadows which dance over his face and age him a hundred years. The circles beneath his eyes and the slump of his shoulders betray the crushing weight upon him, but he seems to find some solace in his work. Each swipe of the stone over the steel as swift and calculated as the one before it and Sansa finds it mesmerizing, nearly hypnotizing to observe.

Breaking the silence, she speaks softly. "You know, there are people who can do that for you." There's little indication that he'd been unaware of her presence. "It's late, you should be getting some rest."

"I prefer to do it myself," he counters with a voice hoarse from lack of use. At her expectant silence, he continues. "It takes my mind off of things."

"You're nervous."

A joyless chuckle dances from his lips, "of course I'm nervous."

"I'm nervous, too." Her skirts pool on the wood as she helps herself to the vacant space beside him and though the night is cold, her cheeks sting due to their close proximity to the fire.

"As you've every right to be," he assures her, determination heavy as he meets her gaze. "I won't let him take you, Sansa."

If only she could bring herself to put faith in his words.

There's a shift in his demeanor, a brotherly protectiveness which pulls his lips into a suprious wooden smile. "It will be alright, it isn't my first fight, after all."

Sansa shakes her head numbly, "it's not as simple as that."

"You're right."

"Don't you understand?" she presses, "you're the better swordsman, he knows that and he's agreeing to fight you anyway."

Equal parts perplexity and understanding reveal themselves in his furrowed brows, "you think he's got something planned?"

"I _know_ he does."

He nods, "I'll be careful, than."

A pregnant silence falls over them as he returns dismissively to his work and fury bubbles in her veins. "So that's it, than?" she snaps. "Death may not frighten you anymore, but there's a lot more at stake here."

His fingers tighten over the whetstone, knuckles white with frustration. "What would you have me do, Sansa? We aren't exactly swimming in options, here."

"I'd have you open your eyes!"

"To what? You question every decision I make, but you never offer any solutions. Just tell me, than! What do you want me to do?!"

Her lips part and though she yearns to reciprocate her brother's fury, she bites her tongue with no small amount of effort. A composing breath, "we can't fight like this."

Jon sighs in agreement, the sudden rush of anger dissipating as he buries his face tiredly in his hands. "You're right, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she dismisses him. "I know it isn't fair that this has been asked of you."

"Doesn't matter, I'm handling it poorly." With soft eyes, he turns to her. "I'm sorry." At her forgiving nod, he leans forward and rests his elbows upon his knees. "So how do we beat him?"

She sighs. "He's clever, you know. Far more than you or me."

"Aye."

She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I think you need to be ready to put aside your honor," she says, "if you're going to survive this."

His lips form a thin line before he speaks. "Our men were loyal to father for a reason. If it comes to it, d'you think they will still fight for us if they don't see the same from me?"

"We won't need them to fight for us, not if you don't let Ramsay-" the word snags on her lips like a rabbit in a patch of thistles, for she's not truly entertained the possibility of such an alternative. Seeing this, he completes her thought for her.

"But if he does kill me, our army will be the only thing left standing between you and him."

"If he kills you, the battle is already lost and don't try to tell me that it isn't." She takes his hand tightly in hers and punctuates each word with an urgency as calm as she can articulate it. "I trust you far more than I trust them. Please, Jon. I need you to win this."

A moment passes and he nods, albiet with a dusting of hesitation and it's a long while before either of them speaks again.

When she breaks the silence, she breaks it softly. " _Does_ death frighten you anymore?

"No."

"Liar," and perhaps she is crass for prodding him, but she justifies herself with the notion that it is concern which motivates her and not mere curiosity.

Something covers him just then, an unseen darkness which drapes a heavy cloak over his shoulders. "I was alone the last time," he admits into the flames. When she looks to him, he does not return her gaze for she knows he is somewhere far away. Sansa knows that look well for it's one she bears often, when the horrors of her past claw their way back into her focus.

When he turns to her, she can see her own reflection flickering in his eyes. "...I don't want to do that again."

She doesn't respond, she doesn't need to. Instead, she leaves him with his demons as she's left with hers and she quietly envisions Ramsay's ashes smoldering in the embers at her feet.

They sit in silence until daybreak, when a distant horn howls over the valley.

* * *

"Snow's got some weight on him, he's using that to his advantage."

"Aye," concurs the smuggler, "-only when he can get close enough to strike."

Tormund grunts, "-coward boy would rather dance than fight."

The duel has been long thusfar, and nearly as exhausting for those watching as those participating. The ground shakes with the roar of their armies as the men break apart for the umpteenth time, circling each other like feral beasts. Even from afar, a sheen of sweat glistens at their temples despite the chill in the air. Each clash of metal is brief as Ramsay consistently twists away at the first opportunity. It's clear that he means to exhaust him by remaining just beyond Jon's reach and forcing him to give chase, though he hasn't bought into it as much as the Bolton seems to deem adequate. The man has resorted to no small number of cheap shots but still, Jon bears not a scrape upon him and the fresh gash at Ramsay's temple has only served to encourage his deceitful efforts.

"You know, my men are very fond of you, Snow!" the madman hollers, twin swords outstretched at his sides, "perhaps I'll allow them to claim you as a spoil of war alongside my wife. Let them have a bit more selection, eh? Redhead or brunette? Ass or cunt?" Ramsay's grin stretches, "Or both! They've rightly earned it!"

Just beyond Ramsay's shoulder stands Sansa, dispatching a silent message to him with a hard stare and a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. Begrudgingly, he grits his teeth and remains rooted where he stands. The smirk on Ramsay's face falters, if only for a moment. "Or perhaps I'll be kind and just let you watch. You'll love to hear it, Jon. I'm not sure about my men, but when she screams it makes me fuck her even harder."

She grimaces, for the gods themselves couldn't have held Jon Snow back.

With a ferocity that could reduce mountains to dirt, he wields Longclaw as a deadly extension of his arm. The clash of steel is heard even over the crowd and Ramsay stumbles back, unprepared for the brute force of the assault. Then, using the fleeting moment of Jon's recoil, he lunges and focuses his weight into a powerful blow to Jon's knee.

Something within the limb pops before he slams hard to the earth, and Sansa's hands form tight fists at her sides.

Ramsay surges forward with an untamed, vengeful wildness, raining blows down on him like fire. Jon twists and dodges the steel as best he can from his defenseless, supine position. Adrenalin pumps through his veins and graciously numbs the pain of his mangled limb as he scrambles back, narrowly avoiding a blow that nearly severs his leg. With a clear understanding that his anemic defense can not stand for long, he sucks a quick breath and audaciously allows himself to still. Ramsay releases a mighty cry as he draws his swords back and pulls them down over Jon with all his might. At the last possible moment, the wounded man propels himself into a sideways roll, the song of the blades singing just past his ear and thudding to the earth beside him. Then, using Ramsay's own devious maneuver against him, he returns the favor of a hard kick to the man's knee which knocks him swiftly from his feet. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Jon scrambles hurriedly for Longclaw lying forgotten in the grass and rises unsteadily to his feet.

The Stark forces roar with triumph and he is thankful they are too far to visibly register his wounded leg twisted grotesquely beneath him, or the grimace of pain marring his features. Ramsay rises swiftly, masking the embarrassment of his fall with his trademark grin. "You look a bit pale, Snow!"

Jon grits his teeth as his opponant circles him conceitedly, highlighting his immobility for all to see. Though he's wholly unfazed by the tactic, he can feel his men shuffling with apprehension behind him. Jon swallows, remembering that morale, or lack thereof, can be a powerful weapon; he'd need to prove himself to them. As Ramsay struts boastfully around him, Jon wonders if perhaps this surge of confidence can be used against him. Loosening his grip on Longclaw, he allows his shoulders to sag subtly and his posture to falter.

"You're good with those little swords, I'll give you that," he hollers with an exaggerated breathlessness, "-does that come from your experience in handling small objects?" Honor be damned, he decides, for she's far more important than that.

Ramsay barks with laughter, "that's good, Snow! Though I wouldn't be so confident, that leg of yours looks rather inauspicious!"

The Bolton's muscles coil divulgingly and Jon braces himself by digging his feet firmly into the dirt. Ramsay then surges forth, wielding his blades back with embellishment and as they're brought down upon him, Jon twists expertly away. The movement sends fire through his wounded knee but as Ramsay descends, he pulls Longclaw into an upward swing which slices through leather and flesh. Dots of black flash across his vision as he turns and nearby, his staggaring opponent holds a profusely bleeding arm close to his chest. Jon is certain he's severed an artery.

The men stand facing off in mutual agony, and he thanks the gods that it is Ramsay who makes the request. "Reprieve." The word is void the man's usual flare, which is an encouraging notion. Jon nods, concealing a heavy grimace until Ramsay's back is turned.

Davos steps immediately forward to retrieve his sword as Tormund takes a position at his wounded side, offering a subtle arm which Jon leans upon gratefully. They sit him down at the edge of a rickety wooden chair and Davos wastes little time in prodding at the mangled appendage. "Is it dislocated?"

Jon swallows breathlessly, "I think so." Davos nods.

Behind him, Tormund claps an encouraging hand on his shoulder, "You're doing well." The wildling lifts his eyes across the field to Ramsay, who nurses the wound at his bicep. "He's a dirty fighter," he grunts. "I don't like that look he keeps giving his man, there." Jon lifts pained eyes to see the bearded archer with whom Ramsay is currently speaking. The man in question then meets Jon's gaze as his commander whispers into his ear, gloved fingers curling ominously around the bow in his hands.

Davos jolts him from his thoughts with a hard pull of his injured leg which sends splashes across his vision. "Hold him steady," he orders. Tormund nods dutifully, fixing a stern grip upon his shoulders. "Lady Sansa, talk to your brother. Keep him awake."

Copper tresses pool in his lap as she lowers herself to her knees before him. "Jon, keep your eyes on me. This is going to hurt-" The smuggler moves the appendage slowly, excruciatingly, and a low growl rumbles in Jon's throat. Seeing this, she speaks purposefully. "-but you're strong, stronger than any of those men out there." Davos pushes at his mangled bones and the grip at his shoulders tightens. "I need you to focus-" Agony ripping through his veins, he curls his fingers around his seat, knuckles white beneath the leather of his gloves. Darkness seeps into the corners of his vision and Sansa's words become distant. A soft hand at his cheek. "Keep focused on me."

Pop.

All at once, the pain climaxes and sends him surging forward, nearly having bumped heads with her if her reflexes had been any less sharp. Steadily, graciously, the sensation recedes and he's left with a much-needed moment to catch his breath.The grey-faced man kneels before him, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Ye' alright, son?" Meeting his gaze with watering eyes, he nods.

Across the field, Ramsay whirls on his heel with a seemingly newfound vigor as he saunters back onto the battleground. "Come, Snow! Let's wrap this up, shall we? I've got plans with my wife later!" Though the man is as crass as ever, there is an air of frustration about him. Furthermore, Jon doesn't miss the way he masks a grimace behind a seemingly carefree smirk.

Testing the limb, he stands unsteadily and Tormund leans in close, "you got him in his better arm." The wildling presents him with Longclaw and holds firmly to the weapon as Jon reaches to retrieve it. "Fuck him up."

A rough clap on the back and he's sent back onto the battleground. Ramsay instantly continues in his insufferable orbit, but the movements of both parties have grown sluggish as exhaustion sets in. While his leg wound severely limits his own mobility, Ramsay's blows prove far less calculated and forceful due to the gash in his arm. It seems, mercifully, the field is still level between them both.

The fight continues in a blur of stages which only increase in brutality, for neither of them intend to fall on this day.

At some point, their blades are mutually lost in the fray and they progress with only their fists. Jon's weight favors him at the close contact and finally, a sharp blow to the temple has Ramsay stumbling to the ground. Quickly seizing the opportunity, Jon straddles him and with a red film over his vision, he slams his knuckles down mercilessly. The bones of Ramsay's nose crunch beneath the force Jon brings down his fist again, and again, and again, and again.

Ramsay's motions begin to slow as his features grow slick with red.

Again, and again, and again, and again-

_Thud._

Suddenly, he's sent sprawling on his back with the air knocked clean from his lungs. Jon's felt this before, this ominous, familiar pinch that's appeared beneath his collarbone. Nearby, Sansa's breath catches in her throat as the long wooden shaft stands tall and proud in her brother's chest like a sigil on a hill. Silently, she implores him. _Get up. Gods, let him get up..._

For once, they seem to hear her plea.

Rather than fear, or defeat or self-pity, a surge of anger floods his veins for past experience has left Jon with little patience for treachery. It is unfortunate for Ramsay that the pain only serves to fuel his rage and he rises unsteadily. He'd made it back to Castle Black with more arrows stuck in him than this, and he'll see this through to the end if it kills him. When he hobbles round to face Ramsay once more, he finds the man waiting closely behind him with a malicious, bloody-toothed grin.

With a firm hand on his shoulder, he pulls Jon swiftly onto his sword.

Sansa should have known better than to trust the gods.

The valley falls into silence as steel slides through the soft flesh of his belly, and a choked gasp slips through his lips. Any noise to follow is cut short as the blade then jerks suddenly upward, sawing through him with the rough and jagged motions of a hunter tearing into his prey. The pain hits him in that moment and cuts sharply through the fog as he's torn from navel to sternum, pouring blood onto the earth. Frozen in terror, Sansa finds herself powerless against the horror that's unfolding before her eyes, powerless to save her brother from being butchered like an animal.

Ramsay's breath in his ear, vicious and void of mercy. "Be _thankful_ that you died swiftly, bastard."

When finally the blade is torn from his body, he crumples earth just moments before Tormund reaches him with the intention to break his fall. An unadulterated rage rips through the Stark forces, the bright chorus of weapons being unsheathed joining in with their furious cries. For Jon, the reality of the situation is barred protectively from his consciousness, as though he were watching the events unfold through the eyes of another. Vaguely, he registers Sansa hovered over him with dismay, gaze darting about his mangled body as if unsure where exactly she should stem the flow of blood. With a muttered apology, she presses her spotless hands hard into a sea of bloodied fabric and bites back nausea when her fingers are enveloped in a hot, soft wetness. It takes a moment for the realization to hit him, for her thin fingers curling inside his body to truly register and when it does, Jon's mind and reality finally meet, and the breaths don't come fast enough.

"Easy, easy," she frantically implores, "breathe, you're alright. You'll be alright." Such a lie falls easily from her lips, but the mess of blood that spills from his mutilated belly portrays the blatant truth.

War rages around them, but it never comes close enough to touch them. In fact, the wildlings have formed a protective circle in defense of their wounded commander. Among those standing firmly between herself and a glittering wave of swords and spears, the red headed wildling waves his steel with a bellow of such grief, of such furious bereavement that one could argue the ground shuddering beneath their feet was due to that rather than the swarm of armored boots surrounding them. 

For Sansa, it all fades into the background.

A small sound then, little more than a whisper and even she wonders if perhaps she'd imagined it among the bedlam. But then, gripping her wrists with surprising strength, bloodied fingers force her aiding hands away.

"Go."

The pain is thick in his eyes, and she can easily see the arduous struggle behind each word. "Take Tormund-" His plea is cut suddenly short by a choked gasp and a horrid gurgling at the back of his throat. With wide eyes and a heaving chest, he fights for an impossible breath as blood bubbles up from between his parted lips.

Suppressing the panic that nearly siezes her, she instinctively pushes him onto his side, mindful of the arrow which protrudes still from his flesh. With a heavy heart and a rapidly diminishing resevoir of hope, she supports his weight as she allows gravity to drain the liquid from his body, creating crimson trails which slither down his ghostly pale skin. His voice returns as little more than a wheeze and he turns to her with determination, understanding that he must choose the few words he has left wisely.

"Sansa, please."

Sansa cannot deny that the notion is tempting, for she expects to be hauled away by Bolton men any moment now and though the thought petrifies her, still she remains. Perhaps it is the guilt of having inadvertently sent him to a gruesome fate on her behalf but that wouldn't be nearly enough reason for her to risk returning to Ramsay's clutches. No, something far deeper, far more meaningful keeps her rooted firmly by his side.

At her silent refusal, moisture pools at his lashes and cuts swirling trails in the crimson on his cheeks. "-m'sorry." A low growl of agony rumbles in his chest as she fights to stem the blood which they both firmly know is futile. Aside from the cool blue hue of his lips, his skin has become void of color.

Again, he drives her hands away.

Surpressing a defeated sob, her breath shudders violently in her chest. "No. No, don't you dare," she hisses, "-don't you dare give up. Don't you leave me here alone."

She feels it then, the hilt that Jon is pressing weakly into her palm. "Go." A deep gurgle from within his chest and he jolts forward with a wet cough, coating her pale skin in a spray of rubies. Jon swallows thickly, a pitiful whimper slipping through his lips. "Please."

"I won't," she shakes her head with firm resolve, crystal droplets falling from her cheeks like water from an icicle in the spring. "I won't let you die alone again."

Something between a chuckle and a sob dances from his lips and lathargically, he lifts his head to take in the mangled mess that his body has become. Blood gushes halfheartedly from the wound, for he imagines there's not much more within him to spare, and it scurries down the dips and crevasses of his exposed entrails before joining with the ever growing pool beneath them. Death doesn't feel far but if she's to have a chance, time is a critical factor.

So, he lifts trembling fingers to the dagger clutched weakly in her hand, and positions the blade above his heart. The gesture itself requires no explaination, for it's evident from the horror in her eyes that she clearly understands what it is he's asking her to do. But with as much vigor as he can muster, he arms his command with finality.

"Go."

As she parts her lips to protest, the authority in his eyes halts her and oddly enough, pride swells in her chest. For no longer is this the innocent boy she'd grown up with, that part of him had died long ago, just as it had in her. No, before her lies a fearless commader, a bold leader, a man of fierce honor and integrity and above all, a brother who she dearly, dearly loves.

A brother who has given up everything. For her.

The dagger is heavier than she's prepared for, though she supposes that makes sense given the circumstances. Sensing this, Jon wraps his own hand over her's on the hilt, their bloodied fingers interlacing.

"Promise..." he gasps, "be safe." At her nod, a soft smile of relief ghosts over him. "Love..." The word slips through his lips as hardly a breath.

Her voice trembles, tears falling freely and mingling with his blood to create a gruesome concoction of tragedy. "Me too."

It's the first time he's heard such words from her, she realizes, and that fact breaks her heart.

Together, they slide the steel through his chest and the ragged gasp that slips through Jon's parted lips is a sound she won't soon forget. It's a surreal moment, she never anticipated her fingers would be curled around a dagger sheathed in her own brother's heart. Yet, here they are.

When he attempts a breath that will never come, a subtle panic flashes through his eyes and he squeezes her fingers tightly. There is an unmistakable flash of the innocence he'd lost long ago. "It's alright, it's alright." With a gut-wrenching sob, she places a bloodied hand upon his cheek and strokes soothing circles upon his skin. "Hush, it will be over soon." 

The life begins to drain swiftly from his eyes after that and though it's one of the hardest things she's ever had to do, she dare not look away.

Dare not miss one moment of it.

It isn't long before he stills and his gaze falls to something very far away that Sansa cannot see.

With a deep sob that shakes her entire body, she extends her bloodied fingers and closes his eyes forever. As she weeps over his body, she finds it nearly as hard to separate from him in death as it had been in life. Perhaps she wouldn't need to, she muses in grief. It would be so easy, for the battle is lost and she'd be like to find the end of a stray blade before Ramsay could reach her.

_You promised._

-and with no small degree of sorrow, she leans over his lifeless form and places a long kiss at the center of his forehead, her tears falling over his face.

When finally she rises, there stands a bloodied Tormund with an outstretched hand and a heavy grief in his eyes. He leads her from the carnage boldly, still surrounded by his band of wildlings who deflect every blade that dare threaten her.

Tearfully, she turns back and Jon's body has disappeared beneath an accumulating mound of both men and horses.

When they reach the outskirts of the battle, they find Davos waiting anxiously with two mares in hand. The men exchange grim words of which she does not care to attend and soon, she finds herself riding in silence beside the grey-faced smuggler. She's unsure of where he leads her, but she can't find it within herself to ask. It doesn't rightly matter anyway.

The noise of the battle fades quickly behind them, a cruel reminder of her brother's broken body lying forgotten beneath the distant chaos. It is a resting place grossly unfit for a Stark, unfit for _him_ and the thought brings a fresh onslaught of tears to her eyes though the rest of her grows numb.

But still they carry on, for it won't be long before Ramsay commences the hunt once more.

Again, she finds herself running.

Again, she finds herself alone in the world.


End file.
